The Reckoning

  “You can speak freely in front of Abel, lad. Tell us what is wrong. Has some evil befallen your lady?”

  Hugh nodded, hesitated, then blurted out his bad news in one breathless wretched rush. “She is gone, Brian, they are both gone!”

  “Hugh, you’ve not thought this through. Only a fool would try to cross those Welsh mountain passes in the dead of winter!”

  “I did it once before—with Lord Bran—can do it again,” Hugh said stubbornly, and Brian and Abel exchanged frustrated glances, for they’d been laboring in vain for nigh on an hour now to talk some sense into the lad. Catching that look, Hugh strove for patience. “I have to get to Wales, Brian. Prince Llewelyn is the only man who might be able to help my lady. He has to know!”

  “I agree with you, just do not see why you must be the one to take such a risk. But if you’re bound and determined to do this, we’d best start laying plans. Abel, know you any good-hearted samaritans willing to lend Hugh a horse?”

  Abel looked as pained as if he’d been asked to produce an elephant. “Jesú, I do not know anyone who even owns a horse! I’m a sailor, Brian, have never so much as been astride one. There are two stables in town that rent mounts, but not for a winter trek into Wales. You’d have to buy the nag outright. How much does a horse cost, Hugh?”

  “A decent one, good enough to get me into Wales and back…not likely less than ten marks,” Hugh said reluctantly, knowing the sum would shock them. “And I’d need a saddle and bridle; also a sword. Supplies, too, for I doubt if there is an inn to be found in all of North Wales. So…somehow I have to come up with at least fifteen marks.”

  “Fifteen marks! You might as well ask for the keys to the King’s Exchequer.” Abel shook his head slowly. “Hugh, I’m sorry, I truly am, for I’d like to help you, and I’d like to help the Earl’s daughter. But I do not know a soul who has that much money to spare.”

  “I know one,” Hugh said grimly. “Thomas the Archdeacon.”

  “Do not talk crazy,” Brian said hastily. “Your life is worth a lot more than fifteen marks, lad. Just give me a moment to think…. Do you not have Jews in Bristol, Abel? Mayhap Hugh could borrow from a money-lender?”

  Hugh looked suddenly hopeful, as if a door had begun to open. Abel hated to slam it in his face, but he was loath to lie, too. “I cannot see it, Brian. Ever since the King forbade any more money-lending—”

  “What?” Hugh and Brian were both staring at him, and Abel beamed; it was always gratifying to be the one to reveal events sure to startle. “You have not heard, then? Last November, the King issued an edict that Jews would no longer be permitted to charge interest on loans, usury being a mortal sin. Not,” he added with a grin, “that such sinning ever kept our kings from claiming a fair measure of the profits! The Jews have fallen, though, on lean times. They might once have been the Crown’s best milch cow, but their milk has dwindled down to a trickle, and who keeps a beast that’s gone dry? When the Council of Lyons condemned usury so strongly last year, the King was stirred to action. Since his decree denied the Jews their only means of making a livelihood, he also proclaimed that they’d be allowed for the first time to become merchants or craftsmen. But that dog would not hunt, for what Christian would deal with a Jew if he did not have to?”

  Brian knew little of the plight of the Jews, cared less. “So what are you saying?” he demanded impatiently. “That they no longer lend money?”

  “Some were scared off, for certes. But others fear starving more than the King’s wrath, and being a sly lot, they’ve sought to hide the interest charged on their loans, making the sum more than it was or calling it a ‘courtesy’ or a ‘special fee.’ But they’ve become as wary and skittish as any virgin lass, require much wooing ere they’ll let you into their coffers!”

  It was Hugh’s turn now to interrupt. “But they will still make loans?”

  Abel stopped laughing and scowled. “You’ll never know if you are not willing to hear me out. The King’s edict is but part of the problem. You see, we had some trouble here in Bristol a few months past. I do not know what set it off, but ere it was over, many of the Jews’ houses had been looted and the Jewry was in flames. Since then, the Jews have been even more tight-fisted than usual. They’re not about to make you a loan, Hugh, for you have nothing to pledge as security.”

  “Hugh…would you ask that little serving maid to bring us some ale?” Hugh looked surprised, but he rose without objection, far too fond of Brian to balk. As soon as he was out of earshot, Brian leaned across the table again. “Abel, listen. I know Hugh, know how desperate he is right now…mayhap even desperate enough to steal a horse. And if he did, he’d be honorable enough to bring it back afterward, and get hanged for his pains. If we let him sit around and brood, he just might go off to confront that whoreson pirate. Let’s seek out a money-lender, even if it comes to naught. Mayhap we’ll have been able to think of another idea by then.”

  Abel shrugged. “Hugh, come on back! My cousin Wat works for a vintner who borrows from money-lenders. Mayhap he might know one not as grasping as most of that accursed breed are. I’d not give you false hope, but if you want to try, I’m willing, lad.”

  Hugh’s sudden smile was blinding. “What are we waiting for, then?”

  Abel’s cousin Wat had once accompanied his employer into the Jewry, and he claimed he could find the house of the money-lender, Isaac ben Asher. But he soon had them wandering about the Jewish quarter in ever widening circles, all the while insisting that their destination was just around the corner. Hugh, usually so tolerant of other men’s foibles, found himself fighting an urge to shove Wat into the path of the next passing cart.

  It was not just his fear for Ellen that had rubbed his nerves so raw. As they backtracked along the narrow, twisting streets, he felt like an intruder, felt conspicuous and ill at ease in such alien territory. He had never had any personal contacts with Jews, for they were permitted to dwell in only twenty-seven English towns, and Evesham had not been one of them. Nor had there been any Jews in Montargis, for Jews throughout Christendom were barred from holding land and were, therefore, segregated by economic necessity in the cities. But if he’d never known any Jews, Hugh did know what was said of them. Servants of Satan. Disciples of the Devil. Infidels who dwelt in their very midst, crafty and false, enemies of the True Faith. Hugh frowned, and instinctively he groped for his crucifix chain, forgetting that his neck was bare; the pirates had taken everything of value.

  They finally found the money-lender’s house at the end of Small Street. It was an impressive stone structure with slate roof and walled courtyard, and Wat and Abel exchanged quips about the wages of sin, but their humor had a hard edge to it. They were admitted by a young maidservant, using the name of Master Bevis, the vintner, as their password, and were asked to wait in a hall of surpassing comfort.

  Abel and Wat and Brian gaped at the spacious dimensions of the chamber, while conjuring up inevitable and embittered comparisons with their own cramped, sparse quarters. A decorated wooden screen closed off the door to the kitchen; a spiral stairway led up to additional chambers above. They wandered about the hall, examining the sturdy oaken tables, the cushioned chairs, the pewter plates stacked in a cupboard, and they thought of their own smoky hearths, the stale bread that served as mealtime trenchers, their backless stools. They counted the flaming wax candles that ringed this room in light, thinking of the reeking tallow candles that they hoarded till dark. And they felt the stirrings of a deep and resentful rage, that good Christians should have so little whilst this infidel unbeliever should have so much.

  Hugh, too, was looking about with unabashed curiosity, but his was a soldier’s eye. He noted the heavy wooden shutters, the iron door bolt. He studied the thickness of the stone walls, admiring how cleverly a door had been cut to fit into the stairway alcove, effectively sealing off the upper chambers. And he remembered what Abel had said about trouble, about the Jewry in flames.

  Wat picked up a book, lo
oked blankly at the Hebrew script, and set it down with a thud, as if he’d touched something unclean. “How long does he mean to make us wait?”

  “We’re being watched,” Brian warned suddenly, making them all jump. They turned to stare suspiciously at the screen. It was a distinct letdown when a small boy toddled out.

  “Look at him,” Wat marveled, “hair like flax! I’d wager his mother found a bit of English seasoning to flavor her stew!”

  “All Jews do not have dusky skin like Saracens,” Hugh said curtly; he was fast losing patience with Abel’s loud-mouthed cousin.

  The unexpected testiness of his tone earned him speculative looks from Abel and Brian. “Hugh is right,” Brian said mildly. “It is because the Jews do look like us that your King Edward ordered them to wear those yellow badges. Otherwise, they could pretend to be Christians, could take unfair advantage of our unwariness.”

  “I know one way they differ from us,” Abel said mysteriously. “I’ve heard it said that when a male child is born, the Jews notch his cock, like we’d brand a horse, a secret way to know their own.”

  “Christ!” The exclamation was Wat’s, but Brian looked no less horrified. Hugh, however, was grinning widely.

  “You’ve got it half-right, Abel. They do not brand the babe, but they do cut off his foreskin. Lord Amaury says the Saracens do it, too. There is even a word for it, circum—something.”

  “Well, whatever you call it, the very thought of putting a knife to my privates makes my ballocks shrivel up like raisins,” Brian declared with such heartfelt honesty that they all laughed, although only Hugh found any real humor in the subject.

  “I wonder what it looks like,” Wat mused, staring so intently at the child that Hugh found himself tensing, in case the man was stupid enough to try to satisfy his curiosity then and there. The little boy was just starting to walk; he wobbled toward a chair, caught a rung for support, and regarded them so solemnly that Hugh suddenly wanted to see him smile.

  “Look, lad,” he said, reaching for a bowl of nuts. “Shall I show you a trick I learned from a French jongleur? Watch carefully now.” Deftly juggling a walnut back and forth, he added a second one to the arc, and the boy’s eyes widened. After a few moments, Hugh had a third walnut airborne, too, but when he tried to introduce a fourth one, walnuts were suddenly raining everywhere. The child squealed with laughter as Hugh, laughing, too; knelt to retrieve them from the floor rushes. “You’re not supposed to laugh when I fail,” he chided, and pretended to find one in the tot’s ear. The boy giggled again, but from the corner of his eye, Hugh caught a blurred movement. Turning his head, he saw Isaac ben Asher standing in the stairwell, watching impassively as he crawled about on hands and knees.

  Hugh could feel his face getting hot. Scrambling hastily to his feet, he sought to recover his dignity as Isaac picked up the child, carried him behind the screen. He’d regained some of his poise by the time the man returned, but he could not hide his surprise, for Isaac ben Asher was not at all what he’d expected. He was young, not much past thirty; Hugh had assumed money-lending to be an old man’s profession. His coloring was fair, and he seemed vaguely familiar. After a moment to reflect, Hugh realized why. As unlikely as it sounded, this Bristol Jew reminded him somehow of Amaury de Montfort. Isaac had Amaury’s unaffected elegance, his air of quiet, watchful wariness. His eyes were blue, not greenish hazel like Amaury’s, but they were startlingly similar, nonetheless, eyes that gave away no secrets, shuttered windows to a soul under siege.

  “I am Isaac ben Asher. You wish to talk to me?”

  Hugh nodded. “I am Sir Hugh de Whitton,” he said, ignoring his companions’ gasps of dismay. They had concocted an elaborate cover story to protect Hugh’s identity, but he found now that he could not use it; it seemed dishonorable to lie to a man while asking that man for money.

  It was not easy to reveal his need so nakedly; Isaac’s cool, guarded gaze did not invite confidences. But Hugh forced himself to continue, and slowly the story emerged. “And now,” he concluded bleakly, “the Lady Ellen has been taken to Windsor Castle. I must get to her husband, I must! You’re my only hope.”

  “And how much hope do you want to borrow?”

  “Fifteen marks,” Hugh mumbled, as if garbling the sum would somehow make it sound less exorbitant. “I know it is a lot, but Prince Llewelyn would never begrudge me the money. You’ll be paid back, I promise!”

  “Assuming you come back,” Isaac said, and angry color flooded Hugh’s face.

  “When I give my word, I keep it!”

  “I am not suggesting you would gainsay your promise,” Isaac said calmly. “I was thinking of the dangers you’d be facing. Have you not thought that you might die on this quest of yours?”

  In truth, Hugh had not. He opened his mouth to reassure Isaac, but the words caught in his throat. Why should this man risk so much upon the good intentions of a stranger? “I can indeed promise you that I’d hold to my word. But I cannot promise that no evil would befall me on the journey. I thank you for your time—”

  “Will tonight be soon enough?”

  Hugh blinked. “What?”

  “If you return at dusk, I shall have the documents drawn up, the money waiting for you.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence. Hugh’s companions were even more astonished than he was, for they’d harbored no hope at all. “You mean it?” Hugh gasped, and the corner of Isaac’s mouth hinted at a smile.

  But then Wat said aggressively, even angrily: “Ere this devil’s deal is struck, Hugh, you’d best ask him how much interest he means to bleed from you. Master Bevis tells me he has paid as much as forty percent of the debt due!”

  “And has your Master Bevis told you about all the times your King has seen fit to cancel Christian debts outright?” Isaac’s voice revealed no overt anger, but his eyes had narrowed, belying his apparent sangfroid. “Did he happen to mention those occasions when Christian borrowers decide to discharge their debts by burning all records of them—and the Jewry, too?”

  Wat had begun to sputter, but before he could give voice to his outrage, Hugh was at his side, his fingers clamping down like talons on Wat’s arm. “The Evesham monks taught me,” he said softly, “that it is the height of bad manners to insult a man in his own house.”

  Abel was looking resentful, too, and for a suspenseful moment, Hugh’s hopes seemed to hang precariously in the balance. But then Brian took charge, ushering his friends hastily toward the door. “Hugh will be back by dusk,” he flung over his shoulder, muttering when Hugh still hesitated, “Let’s get out of here ere he changes his mind!”

  At sound of the closing door, the maidservant emerged from behind the screen, leading Isaac’s son by the hand. “May he play out here now?”

  “Come to me, Elias,” Isaac said, and the little boy tottered toward him. He was lifting Elias up onto a high-backed chair when he heard footsteps. Whirling, he saw Hugh standing just a few feet away.

  “I came back,” Hugh said, for when he was nervous, he tended to belabor the obvious. “I wanted to thank you. You have no idea how much it means to me, that you agreed to give me the money.”

  “I think I do,” Isaac said dryly, “for you left without even asking what the interest would be.”

  Hugh’s smile was sheepish. “I’m not good at business matters,” he confessed. “I’d never borrowed money before. In fact, I… I’d never met a Jew before. You are not what I expected, not at all.”

  ’No cloven hoof, you mean?”

  Hugh flushed, but managed a game smile. “May I ask something? Why did you do it? Why did you agree to make the loan?”

  “Does it truly matter?” Isaac parried, sounding cautious, but curious, too. “Let me put a question to you, instead. Why did you tell me your true identity? Did you not fear that I might betray you?”

  Hugh shrugged. “It just did not seem right to lie, not when I was seeking a favor.”

  Isaac was silent for so long that Hugh decided
the conversation was at an end. He was about to retreat when Isaac said abruptly, unexpectedly, “You must have been very young when you entered Lady Eleanor’s service, for loyalty like yours takes years to forge. I assume then, that you’ve been dwelling in France?”

  When Hugh gave a puzzled nod, Isaac hesitated, and there was another long pause. “It has never been easy to be a Jew in England,” he said at last, speaking fast and very low. “But life is harder now than ever before, for King Edward despises us so. His father brought untold grief upon us by his attempts to convert us to your faith. He set up conversion houses throughout England, was truly disappointed when his nets caught so few fish. But Edward cares naught for our souls, cares only for the money he can wrest from us. And when a lemon is wrung dry, you throw it away…no?”

  “I suppose so,” Hugh said uncertainly.

  “You are wondering what lemons have to do with this. But in the past year, the King’s mother has banished all Jews from her dower towns, from Marlborough, Gloucester, Worcester, and Cambridge. The Gloucester Jews took refuge here in Bristol, so I saw for myself what misery the old Queen caused.”

  “You truly think King Edward might do that? Expel all the Jews from England?” Hugh’s astonishment was genuine; he’d never even considered the possibility before. “But…but where would you all go?” he asked, and now it was Isaac who shrugged.

  An awkward silence fell. Isaac was standing behind his son’s chair and he reached down, ruffled Elias’s bright hair, but it was obvious his thoughts were elsewhere; his was the taut, disquieted distraction of a man startled by his own candor. But then Hugh smiled.

  “I think I understand. My lady tells me the Welsh have a saying, ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’”